


Fallen From Grace

by spockandawe



Series: When I'm Falling I'm At Peace [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Depression, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Service, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 10:49:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14042640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: Because your life isn’t already difficult enough, you wake up one morning to find an undead warrior from ancient Cybertron requesting an audience.It takes a klik for your processor to catch up and confirm that yes, this is really happening. It’s not the result of too many interrupted defrag cycles, it’s not a hallucination— you think. As far as you can tell. Considering the bizarre bad news you seem to get on a regular basis, perhaps this shouldn’t seem so out of the ordinary. You still can't help trying to figure out an explanation for how this isn’t actually happening.No such luck, by the time you make your way to the audience room, Cyclonus is still there, and looks a bit too solid to be a true hallucination.





	Fallen From Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for dubious consent, though nobody really wanted or intended to end up in the situation that happened, as well as very indirect references to a past sexually exploitative master/servant relationship with unhealthy power dynamics. Also, _nobody_ in this story is coping well with anything.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/172090333956/fallen-from-grace-spockandawe-the-transformers)

Because your life isn’t already difficult enough, you wake up one morning to find an undead warrior from ancient Cybertron requesting an audience.

It takes a klik for your processor to catch up and confirm that yes, this is really happening. It’s not the result of too many interrupted defrag cycles, it’s not a hallucination— you think. As far as you can tell. Considering the bizarre bad news you seem to get on a regular basis, perhaps this shouldn’t seem so out of the ordinary. It’s not a pre-war Prime mysteriously returned from the grave and oh yes also he was just a tiny mech who transformed into a head this whole time. For example. But somehow, this is just a step too far, and you drag your heels trying to figure out the explanation for how this isn’t actually happening.

No such luck, by the time you make your way to the audience room, Cyclonus is still there, and looks a bit too solid to be a true hallucination. _Cyclonus._ Everything was much easier when he and Galvatron wandered off to be someone else’s problem. Optimus and Soundwave can have Galvatron, Megatron and Rodimus can have Cyclonus, and you’ll just deal with the dead Sweeps littering the landscape. It was an arrangement that worked out for _everyone._ There are almost two hundred mechs stationed on board the Lost Light, and you’ve had the good luck to land one of the most dangerous ones, and one of the only ones who’s almost a complete cipher.

You’re too exhausted for subtlety. As soon as the door shuts behind you, you lead with a blunt, “What do you want.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I wish to offer my service.”

“Service how? In what way? What can you offer that I don’t already have?” You make your way behind your desk and sit heavily in your chair. “Oh, and before I forget, why don’t you tell me why I’m supposed to believe a single word that comes out of your mouth?”

Cyclonus pauses for a moment before he speaks again. “I desire… someone that I may serve. Someone to whom I can offer myself.”

You almost want to smile. If you were feeling up to it, these would be exactly the sort of word games you enjoyed unraveling, but you don’t have the patience—or energy—for that right now. “Isn’t _that_ an interesting way to put it. Fascinating. _Someone_ to serve. There aren’t words for how much I don’t trust you right now.”

Cyclonus shifts in place, and his wings draw in a little closer to his body, but his face is still blank and stoic. He doesn’t say a word.

After a moment, you add, “Why?”

“For the sake of duty and honor.” Because you’re watching as close as you can for any reaction, you can see him fractionally relax. “It is the place of every loyal Cybertronian to—”

“ _No.”_ You lean forward over the desk and lock optics with him. “That’s the easy answer. You just spent years wasting your time with Rodimus on his aimless little cruise. Before that, the last thing you did was wreak havoc on Cybertron directly, and now I’m supposed to believe this is what you want?”

He stiffens. “Before, on Cybertron. I was under the control of—”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard it before. And it’s _wonderful_ that nobody but you has any way to verify whether or not that was true. And regardless of whether or not you’re lying, it does nothing to answer why I should put the slightest bit of trust in you, right here, right now.”

Now he drops his optics from yours. You can see the tension in his shoulders, but his face is still empty. “Regardless of explanations—excuses—it was a time I was able to serve my lord, and to act as an instrument of his will. I was a weapon in his hand, and was able to offer myself to a greater purpose than that of my own life. I seek that again.”

“Why.”

“It was… security.” His wings are pulling in tight to his body. “It was honorable and just, and a proper place for me to take, at his right hand. I require nothing more than that in life.”

“Mmm.” You have a processor ache. Not necessarily because of _this._ This is something you could almost enjoy picking apart, if you didn’t feel like an any moment you were going to snap—or collapse in on yourself, you can’t tell which. But it means you don’t have any patience for playing along with whatever this is. “And after that the only thing that would satisfy you was to join up with _Rodimus.”_

“There was nothing else here for me.” He’s relaxing again, which means you just took a step in the wrong direction.

“And then you stayed with him for years.”

He doesn’t answer, and doesn’t lift his optics to yours.

You drum your fingers on your desk. “Tell me, what kept you there for so long?”

Cyclonus flinches, barely enough to notice, but… enough. You smile to yourself in satisfaction.

He doesn’t answer, and after a moment you continue. “So not only have you _attacked_ Cybertron, whether or not it was for the purposes of ‘service’, but I’m supposed to accept that you’ve suddenly decided that whatever commitments were keeping you with Rodimus and company, those have stopped mattering and _all_ you want, your true spark’s desire, is to rush back here and offer to serve _me.”_

Softly, he says, “I have no commitments of note to Rodimus or his crew.”

You sit back in your chair. You don’t know if he thinks you’re slow enough to miss his evasions, or whether he just hopes you’ll let it go.

“You still haven’t told me why you stayed.”

His face spasms. “I— no longer have commitments of note to Rodimus or his crew.”

 _Well._ It’s easy enough to read what he’s not saying there. It’s tempting to force him to admit it out loud, but you just… don’t have the energy to do all the steps in this dance, not anymore. “So right from the start you’re refusing to answer my most basic questions, you’re concealing information from me, and you still think I should trust you enough to accept your service.”

His head drops a little further, but he makes no move to respond.

You’re— too tired to hammer on this point until he gives in. You ought to be enjoying yourself right now, or at least feeling some kind of satisfaction at untangling the truth of the matter, but you feel too separated from those emotions to even touch them. You should just tell him to get out, and that would undoubtedly be the _easiest_ way forward. But even if you’re too tired to press this point the way you should, you can’t stop prodding at it to see what else comes out. Isn’t that just the story of your life.

And your processor aches. You sigh and dim your optics. “Tell me why you’re _here.”_

“If I am to serve Cybertron, the simplest way is to seek out the leader of the planet.”

“Or you could have just gone off to play with Optimus Prime and his pretty little Matrix on Earth, _he_ certainly thinks he has Cybertron’s best interests in mind. Give me a better answer than that.”

You hear him shift, and boot up your optics again, trying not to jump. Stupid— no matter how tired you are, letting down your guard like that with a mech like _this_ is just inexcusable. But he’s only leaning forward where he sits, looking intently at you.

“He may have the religious mandate, but _I_ may choose to weigh that against the voice of Cybertron’s people. He has established himself on another world, away from Cybertron.” He shutters his optics briefly. “I have spent enough time away from home.”

“And is that everything?”

“No. Optimus Prime commands the loyalty of his faction, a faction I do not belong to and desire no part in. He has no shortage of warriors and an established, layered command structure where I have no place and would be weighed against mechs who have loyally served him for millions of years.”

He hesitates.

“Go on.”

“You—” He pauses again, looking at you, and continues. “You command the loyalty of a more scattered, divided base, with no relationships of note predating your ascension to this position.”

A part of you blazes up with real anger for a moment, but it burns out just as quickly, leaving you too hollow to pull together any real emotional response. In some ways it’s better than hollow platitudes and declarations of loyalty from mechs you know will abandon you for another ruler the moment an opportunity presents itself. You manage a dry, “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Cyclonus glances away. “If I am to serve, I… would wish to be of service. To be a tool in someone’s hand rather than be left unused and unneeded.”

You stay where you are, crossing your arms. You want nothing more than to go back to your recharge slab and dream that the day has been canceled. Cyclonus stays where he is, levelly watching you, his face still smooth and empty.

You sigh and fight the urge to rub your forehead. You ought to be making _him_ say this, not doing the work for him. Forcing him to talk through this would tell you so much more about what he is and what he wants, but you’re too exhausted to give serious consideration to having that conversation. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You can’t deal with death—” He flinches minutely at the word. “And you want someone to keep you busy. Is that right?”

He looks uneasy. “In… part.”

“I’m not going to carry both sides of this conversation,” you snap. “How many times are you going to refuse to give me a straight answer and _still_ expect me to give you what you want?”

“Service—” Cyclonus stops and begins again. “Service has always been its own reward. Has always been my purpose.” He looks away from you, down at his hands. “For a time I thought differently. I was mistaken.”

Primus. You don’t need this right now, you really don’t. And every option you have is bad. What, are you supposed to take him at his word? Take him on? He just made that nice little point there about how scattered and untried your supporters are, which was just wonderful, thanks, but you’re not so desperate you’ve forgotten how to spot a trap.

But if you turn him away— What then? Optimus, probably, no matter how he sulks about working with Autobots. Or Caminus. You’re sure he and the Mistress of Flame would get on _wonderfully._ He doesn’t seem all that suited to the other colonies, and you doubt Elita would have him either, but that’s not much comfort. Does he stay here in the city? Go off wandering the wilderness? Or maybe he’ll just go off in a ship and hunt down one of the stray warlords who haven’t managed to process that the war is _over,_ and that’s exactly what you need, ancient historical figures helping prolong the fight. Perhaps he’ll go limping back to _Megatron._

This is all moot. Securing resources for yourself would be the most sensible thing to do, unless those resources are sentient and capable of turning on you the minute they decide it’s worthwhile. And even this— It completely neglects whatever else he’s after that he still isn’t telling you. He only wants to serve? _Ha._ No, you still have no idea what he wants. Your head is pounding. You had a processor ache before you started, and nothing about this conversation has helped. You can’t risk taking him into service. You can’t risk turning him away. You’re putting a weapon in your enemies’ hands if you do that, and giving him a reason to resent you on top of everything else. Someone will probably notice if you have him killed.

You don’t _know._ What if— What if you could make him give up on it by himself? That doesn’t solve all your problems, not even close, but it’s slightly, _slightly_ more of an answer than you’ve been able to come up with on your own.

What do you know about him? Ancient. Uptight. Possibly doesn’t do emotions beyond ‘stern’.

No slowing down to think through everything that’s wrong with this plan. You lean back in your chair, kicking it backwards, away from the desk. “Fine, you’ve convinced me. You’re offering yourself in service.” You shift so your legs fall slightly apart, hands resting on your thighs. You force yourself to leer and make your voice as suggestive as you can manage. “Now tell me, how far does that _service_ go?”

He doesn’t move, just sits there frozen, blankly looking at you. And there you go, all you need to do is push this point until you offend him enough that he gives in and tells you to slag off. A flawless plan, flawlessly executed.

But while you’re pausing for dramatic effect, he inclines his head towards you and says simply, “Of course.”

Before you can process that or react, he’s already on his feet, moving around the desk to you. Without any hesitation, he goes to his knees in front of you. You barely manage to stop yourself from pushing back further or slamming your legs closed.

Cyclonus reaches for your legs, then stops, his claws hovering just above your plating. “Unless you’d prefer me on the desk,” he says. “Or in your quarters.”

“No,” you say, but you hardly know what you’re saying no to.

He bows his head again, and then his hands are on your thighs, nudging them further apart and he’s leaning forward into that space. There’s something you ought to be doing here, something you ought to be saying, _some_ kind of reaction, anything at all to take back control of the scene. You don’t know how it slipped away from you so quickly, you don’t know how this is happening at _all_ right now, and all you can do is watch frozen as Cyclonus reaches between your legs and rubs a thumb over your panel.

You do move then, even though it’s nothing more than an aborted little twitch of your fingers as you nearly grab for his shoulders and force yourself into stillness again. He repeats the motion with his thumb, firm and slow, making it impossible for you to ignore the pressure of his plating against yours. You feel detached from the scene, just an outside observer, but every time his thumb moves over your panel, you feel the heat starting to build there under your plating.

And— you need to catch up, you need to get control back. _Any_ control. You know you need to. But all you can do is listen to the slow build of your fans, like it’s someone else’s fans spinning up, someone else’s frame this is happening to. You watch Cyclonus lean forward, his head angled so his horns point away from your body. And you see it happening, you know what he’s doing, but you can’t remember how to move as he slowly, deliberately _licks_ your panel.

The heat of his glossa against your panel startles a quiet muffled noise out of you, and you do move then. You clutch at his shoulders before you can stop yourself. Your legs jerk, trying to close, but he’s pressed too close, more weight than you can shift, and his shoulders pin your legs wide open.

Your processor is racing, trying to adjust and catch up. And then Cyclonus licks you again, and every half-formed thought you had goes flying out of your head. Your panel opens without any conscious input from you, and he takes your spike easily in hand as it pressurizes, and his mouth is pressed to your valve instead of your panel.

You can feel his glossa on your node, and your grip on his shoulders is so tight that your fingers ache. His hand moves against your spike, but it’s impossible to think past the way his glossa presses flat against you and withdraws, the hot, wet heat of his mouth as he licks over your valve, his lips moving against your node. His glossa dips into you for a moment, and you make another involuntary noise, louder and cut off as quickly as you can, but your plating burns at being so obvious and _weak._

But you never get a chance to adjust and recover your control. Cyclonus doesn’t move quickly, but he doesn’t _stop_. Your fans are running hard, and it’s embarrassingly fast, but you’re so _close._ You try to tell yourself that it’s just— been a while, but even if that’s the case, it doesn’t change the facts. Your head falls back, your optics powering down.

Cyclonus shifts where he kneels, reaching his free hand around to your aft and tilting your hips forward into his mouth. You aren’t expecting it, and the change in angle as he kisses your valve and presses his glossa to your node— You manage to let go of his shoulders so that you can grab blindly for his horns, and when you drag his head harder against you, you _feel_ him make a soft noise against your valve, and that’s it, it’s too much, you fall into overload with your head spinning and your vocal processor glitching out.

It’s— been some time, that’s what you tell yourself as Cyclonus eases you down through the overload, his hand still on your spike and his mouth on your valve, still moving, but slowing gradually as you shake under him.

When it finally ends and your optics boot up again, all you can do for a moment is stare blankly at the ceiling. You can still hear your fans roaring. It’s hard to believe that any of that actually just happened. Cyclonus is still kneeling between your legs, and you can feel the pleasant ache in your valve, but that’s different from _believing_ it. Your headache is already coming back with a vengeance.

You take a moment to brace yourself and then turn your head to glance down at Cyclonus. He’s watching you, with that same blank, unreadable expression, and you don’t let yourself look away. But as soon as he locks optics with you, he drops his gaze, inclining his head to you for a moment before he stands and calmly returns to his seat.

What are you supposed to do _now?_ None of that was supposed to happen. You’re not even sure you wanted it. He was supposed to be horrified and scandalized and storm out and stop being your problem. Offending him into quitting was your best plan, and it was a horrible excuse for a plan, and didn’t work on top of all the other problems with it. He’s still _here._ And not only is your head pounding again, but you feel even more exhausted than before. You still have the entire rest of the day to deal with.

And he’s still watching you patiently as you struggle to think through even a piece of this mess.

Because you have to say _something,_ you manage, “I still don’t have a clue what I’ll _do_ with you.”

He bends his head. “I am content to wait. Or I can offer my own advice as I familiarize myself with existence here, whichever is your preference.”

“You do that.” None of this feels real. You had his mouth on your array less than a klik ago, you’re still cooling down from that little adventure, but none of it feels _real._ It feels like you’re having this conversation without any input from yourself. “Find Rattrap, tell him to set you up with quarters in the Council facility. That should do for now.”

“Near your quarters?”

Your processor is pounding so hard that you want to shut down your optics and go sit in a quiet, dark room for a month or two. You have to settle for rubbing your forehead and wishing you could do more. “I suppose.” This is a delicate situation, and you need to think through the impacts this will have politically. This isn’t some anonymous staffer you can shuffle into any old position, this is a historical figure who also made a loud nuisance of himself at the end of the war. This is going to have impacts on just the native Cybertronians, and you don’t have it in you to even think about what the colonies will think. “Yes, fine, do whatever you want.”

Is that the worst possible answer you could have given for damage control? It might be. You don’t care. You give _up._

At least Cyclonus doesn’t argue or ask for anything else. Or Primus forbid, try to make _conversation._ He just bows his head again, gets up, and leaves without a word. You watch him go, and realize, belatedly, that he has a sword strapped to his back. A sword. And you _never noticed,_ not even when he was down between your legs. This is a disaster. Not yet, but it’s going to be. You aren’t going to be able to hold this together, but even worse, you’re at the point where you can’t bring yourself to care.

You manage to send a quick message to Rattrap, letting him know that you’re bringing on a new staffer who’ll be working closely with you, then shut your comms down before he can ask what this new staffer is going to _do._ Bodyguard work? That’s probably easiest. You refuse to think this through right now, you just… can’t.

When you look at your calendar for the rest of the day, you’re completely booked for the rest of the day, with a number of urgent messages waiting for your attention and additional meetings you really _ought_ to schedule. This is your first meeting of the day, and you don’t have a real break until tonight.

There’s still maybe three or four kliks until you need to leave for the meeting with the colonial representatives. Not enough time for a real defrag cycle, but you still put your head down on your desk and boot down your optics. It’s not going to be enough, but maybe you can get a _little_ rest. If you set an alarm for three kliks from now, then clean yourself up and go, that should work.

Or you could clean up now. But that would mean moving and thinking and— no. You can’t. Three kliks. You have three kliks to work with. You stay where you are, optics off and head down, and try your hardest to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/172090333956/fallen-from-grace-spockandawe-the-transformers)


End file.
